


press you to the pages of my heart

by fembot



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 06:03:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fembot/pseuds/fembot
Summary: Really, this is about Crowley needing something. Not even Crowley, his body – nothing complicated about it.





	press you to the pages of my heart

Aziraphale is hard.

Well, strictly speaking, Crowley is hard, and Aziraphale has nothing to do with it. This body is treacherous. Isn’t that just like a demon.

Aziraphale bites his lip, a habit of Crowley’s he has noticed a thousand times; apparently that comes with the body too. His bare feet shift on the floor, black denim pulls and shifts against his thighs – Crowley _will_ wear his trousers tight – and he settles his restless hand on his knee.

He could just wave it away. Flesh is flesh is flesh; it’s just one face or another, and Aziraphale still has his miraculous abilities. No need to – nothing. There is nothing to do.

But –

Then again, he doesn’t know, does he? Nothing like this has ever been attempted. Perhaps his ethereal powers would have an adverse effect on Crowley. Somehow.

Better not risk it. This is an important day for them. Be a pity if after everything, after all of Agnes’ work, and Anathema’s, he and Crowley still ended up steaming patches on the floor.

Aziraphale is biting his lip again. He stops himself consciously.

Ignore it, then, he thinks. Bites his lip. Stops himself. Feels the pull, the desire; thinks: what does Crowley do when this happens? And instinctively guides his thoughts away from _that_ dangerous path.

But after all – he’s feeling what Crowley would feel in this instance, and so Crowley has felt like this before, all – shivering, and hot, and wanting. Would Crowley just wave it away (impatient, the way he waves away Aziraphale’s complaints about his driving), or would he let his hand – slip down and begin – to move –

Aziraphale moves his hand back to neutral territory, his upper thigh. Those long fingers are restless. They tap and stretch on his thigh. Aziraphale, clearing his throat, forces himself to be still - but he still can feel his hand there. Aziraphale has delved into sensual delights, but he’s never felt like his skin was sparking with nervous electricity. Is it the novelty of a new body, or is Crowley just sensitive? Maybe the world feels like this to him, humming on his skin, waking up this feeling like longing, like wanting, like needing…

Aziraphale’s hand has gone there without his even thinking about it, just rubbing, pressing through his trousers. He’s biting his lip, breathing hard already.

"What in Heaven's name am I doing, " he mutters, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, and it comes out in Crowley’s voice, a little raspy, low, dragging and catching on the words. "But then you need this, don’t you, my dear," he goes on, his voice almost a whisper, sliding his hands down his chest. He has a sudden flash in his mind, seeing himself from above – splayed out on Crowley’s couch, restless with arousal – imagines Crowley, the real Crowley coming home, finding him like this. And wouldn’t he be shocked, seeing Aziraphale in this state?

Aziraphale, without having to think too much about it, pushes the thought from his head. Really, this is about Crowley needing something. Not even Crowley, his body – nothing complicated about it. He might even feel better for the release, though of course he wouldn’t know why. In any case, Aziraphale needs to get to sleep soon, and it’s the most practical way forward.

Aziraphale breathes, eyes closed, one hand raking through his hair, mussing, tugging lightly. He lets his other hand wander, one finger down his neck, delicately tracing an ear (breathing sharply at the feeling) and then his bottom lip – down his sternum, his bellybutton, down, letting the feeling uncurl slowly. This body likes to be made to wait. He goes slowly, slowly, slides the zipper down with a trembling hand.

When he finally gets his hand inside his pants, wraps it around his cock, Aziraphale lets out a shuddering breath of relief. He slides his hand, down, up, just lightly, tightens his grip until he’s jerking his cock with long, deliberate, delicious slides. Tension mounts, the nape of his neck sparking with feeling. As he gets closer to orgasm, he makes himself slow down almost to a stop. His hips writhe, quite without his permission.

“Fffuck,” he says, and at the sound of Crowley's voice, rough and raw, has to rock into his hand, a slow, shivering grind. He’s never heard Crowley like this before, like he wants so badly, like he just can’t help it. Images come, unstoppable – the floodgates that Aziraphale has kept closed for so many years, opening, and Aziraphale is arching into his borrowed hand, sweating on the small of his back. Crowley, smiling that nasty grin that promises only mischief. Crowley across the table at the Ritz, his serpent’s eyes warm on Aziraphale. Crowley, moaning like Aziraphale is now – moaning under Aziraphale’s hands – Crowley –

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, slaps a hand over his mouth, and thinks, Crowley under my hands, his skin and my skin, here, with me – “Crowley,” he gasps again against his fingers, sounding wrecked, shattered, thinks, feverishly, _this is what Crowley would sound like_ – and he comes into his working hand, making breathless, helpless sounds, whole body a tense arc as his hips lift off the couch. Aziraphale slumps back down a moment later, boneless, breathing hard, and shaking badly. Miracles the mess from himself a moment later and rises clumsily. In the ensuite, he fills a glass from the tap and drinks it down. His trousers are still unzipped; he does them up with shaky hands. And doesn't meet Crowley's eyes in the mirror. 


End file.
